


well you laughed baby it's okay (it's buzzcut season anyway)

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is indeed a bastard, Coming Untouched, Crowley deserves to be spoiled, Drunk Sex, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Light D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 20:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: Being touched like this is nice. Being touched like this by Aziraphale is better. Having Aziraphale get his fingers and hands into Crowley's hair and doing whatever he wants? Any facilities he has have gone offline.





	well you laughed baby it's okay (it's buzzcut season anyway)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notcaycepollard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/gifts).



> When your friend slides into your DMs with an absolutely brilliant idea, of course you're going to write it. <3

Aziraphale honest-to-Someone _giggles_ , and it occurs to Crowley that he is very, very drunk. Not that this is any sort of surprise, given they’ve been at it since brunch; and it’s… All right he doesn’t actually know what time it is, but a glance out of the window of Aziraphale’s flat shows the sun is low, so probably a bit. 

Crowley shifts on the chair where he’s sprawled for the past few (or many) hours, and the world swims a bit. If he were smart, he’d stay where he is. But even otherworldly bodies need water after that much alcohol, and he totters off to the kitchen. Very carefully and deliberately, because he is soused. Sauced. Maybe even slammered. 

It’s an effort of heroic proportions (Aziraphale would know what he’s trying to conceptualize) to fill two glasses under the tap, but he does, and manages to get them back to the living room mostly full. 

“Bless you,” Aziraphale says, then frowns. “No, that’s not appropriate.” 

Crowley has a feeling he’d sit there and try and think of a more suitable phrase for a while, so he sticks a glass in Aziraphale’s hand and sits down on the couch next to him. 

“It’s fine. I know what you’re trying to--” He makes a motion that’s supposed to communicate… well, lots of things he can’t articulate right now, because he’s fucking nonced. 

Aziraphale makes a noise that might be “I understand what you’re trying to say, but I am unable to verbalize it because I too am very inebriated.” 

“Glad we’re on the same page, then.” 

Crowley puts his glass on the coffee table. Getting back up to sit on the couch seems like an awful lot of work, and Aziraphale is _right there_. So he settles his head on Aziraphale’s lap and moves until his legs are on the couch. 

“Hello,” he hears above him. It’s a bemused hello, a little surprised but not unwanted. (Or maybe amused. He can never remember which 1.) 

“Hi,” he says back. It occurs to him this might be presumptuous, so he asks, “Is this all right?”

“You’re perfect right where you are,” Aziraphale says, and starts running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. It would be nice any time, but when he’s fuzzy with drink and contentedly heavy-limbed? Something sparks in his head and travels through his body, a gentle, languorous fizz of pleasure he could savour for hours. 

He doesn’t know how long Aziraphale keeps doing that, but he’s half-asleep when Aziraphale murmurs, “You’re lovely always, my dear, and I would never ask you to change anything you don’t want to; but I do miss your long hair.”

“Why’s that?” 

“It’s terribly silly. Perhaps even ridiculous.” Aziraphale has stopped touching his hair, and Crowley wants to be a little petulant about it. But he knows this dance, and his next step in it.

“Tell me. I won’t laugh. I won’t even make a face.” 

“All right.” Aziraphale takes a breath. “I always wanted to pull on your hair. Just get my fingers into it and do… oh I don’t know! I told you it was nonsense.”  
  
Crowley says nothing, because he’s not capable of doing much beyond acknowledging the haze of desire that has suddenly overtaken his brain and body. Being touched like this is nice. Being touched like this by Aziraphale is better. Having Aziraphale get his fingers and hands into Crowley's hair and doing whatever he wants? Any facilities he has have gone offline.  
  
“You think it’s stupid, don’t you?”  
  
The note of distress in Aziraphale’s voice finally spurs him to action. He sits up. "No, I don't."  
  
"You don't have to humour me, Crowley. I know it's a silly fancy." He's starting to draw in on himself, in the way he thinks he’s not allowed to have things 2.  
  
"Angel. Look at me." And so Aziraphale does, reluctantly. "Why would I humour you when I'm going to get something out of it? A spark of goodness doesn’t mean I’m going to become altruistic.” Crowley pronounces the word with exaggerated distaste.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“For the last time, yes.” A little softer: “I would very much like you to do whatever you want to my hair." He concentrates for a moment, and his hair brushes his shoulders. It's been a while since it was this long, and he shakes it out of his eyes.  
  
"Oh, Crowley." There's a soft look of wonder on Aziraphale's face, so gentle and unguarded he thinks he might actually discorporate. Instead, he settles for staring dumbly.  
  
"Come here," Aziraphale says, half-pulling Crowley onto his lap. He complies inelegantly, but it doesn't matter once his arms are over Aziraphale's shoulders and Aziraphale's hands are in his hair.  
  
Aziraphale's thumbs brush the sides of Crowley’s head and the lovely fizzy sensation is back. They trade soft, slow kisses while Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley's hair, against his scalp. The fizz becomes a warmth, suffusing his body until he's practically draped over Aziraphale.  
  
Aziraphale pulls back, but keeps stroking Crowley’s hair. "How is it, dear?"  
  
"'S good, real good," Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale's cheek.  
  
Aziraphale tilts his head, kisses Crowley on the temple. "Do you want me to keep doing that or can I try something else?"  
  
“Whatever you like, just-- don’t stop.” Crowley thinks he sounds a bit plaintive, but if Aziraphale notices, he doesn’t comment on it.  
  
He starts gentle, tugging at Crowley’s hair just a little bit, then more. He experiments with position and amount, pressure and force. Crowley gasps when Aziraphale grabs a handful of hair and slowly, firmly tugs back, exposing his throat to Aziraphale’s regard. The motion makes him feel unprotected, vulnerable, but in a way he doesn’t mind (and thinks he should).  
  
Aziraphale plants a kiss on Crowley’s pulse at his neck, then on the other side, and at the hollow of his throat. It’s terribly, casually possessive, the assuredness with which Aziraphale moves around him; and a spike of want makes itself known. Crowley wonders if Aziraphale can hear his breath grow ragged, this strange human response he shouldn’t actually have. He must certainly notice Crowley’s hard, pressed against him.   
  
“You know, you’re very pretty like this,” Aziraphale says, very conversationally. There’s something about his offhand tone that makes Crowley’s knees weaker, and he feels himself grind against Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiles, like he does when when seeing a particularly toothsome dessert he’s about to dig into.  
  
"Nrgh," Crowley says, ever eloquent.  
  
Aziraphale chuckles, soft and fond. "Such a clever serpent you are, always with things to say. Except now."  
  
"Much better things you could be doing with my tongue at the current moment," Crowley retorts. He's aimed for cheeky, possibly insolent, and ended up at begging.  
  
"Peace, or I will stop thy mouth," Aziraphale chides, but there’s no bite in it.  
  
"Your reverse psychology is terrible."  
  
"I wasn’t trying particularly hard, since I find both options equally pleasing," he says, and drags Crowley's head down so they can kiss again. These are long, hot and messy in a way that makes him feel truly indecorous, libertine 3.  
  
Aziraphale has both of his hands tangled into Crowley’s hair now, and he tugs sharply, until Crowley is flush against him. There’s an explosion of sensation that spreads through his body, making him shudder against Aziraphale. He makes a noise, helpless, into Aziraphale’s mouth, and Crowley feels him smile at this.  
  
“What was that, my dear?” Aziraphale’s tone is solicitous, and Crowley thinks he might discorporate if he actually has to form words right now.  
  
“Please,” he manages, and hopes it’s enough.  
  
“Please what, darling? I’ll do anything you ask.” All right, at this moment he wishes Aziraphale was a little bit less of a bastard.  
  
“Don’t stop. With my hair.” Crowley’s trembling now, his breath harsh.  
  
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale says while he keeps pulling at Crowley’s locks, curling them around his fingers. Crowley closes his eyes. “This is everything I hoped it would be,” he hears Aziraphale say, and a wave of pleasure rocks him.  
  
“Just like that, you beautiful, lovely thing.” Aziraphale presses their foreheads together, runs his fingers against Crowley’s scalp for a moment before making a good strong jerk, fierce enough it almost makes him tear up.  
  
He comes with a raw noise, whites out for a few moments. When he’s reacquainted himself with his surroundings, he’s against Aziraphale’s shoulder, who’s still running fingers through his hair.  
  
Aziraphale presses a brief kiss to his hairline, and Crowley’s almost overwhelmed by tenderness, his breath catching again. There’s no place in the universe that could be more perfect than this, and he feels… blessed. (Oh Someone, he must be getting soppy if the thought doesn’t spark a bit of alarm.)  
  
“What are you thinking, my dear? You’ve got that look about you.”  
  
Crowley lifts his head, turns to look at Aziraphale. “Maybe I’ll keep the hair, if this is what it does for you.”  


Aziraphale laughs, and there is something of the sublime about it 4. “That is indeed something I would like very much.” 

  


* * *

  


1 It wasn’t either, but rather something in between. So far, a word has not been invented for that. ⤶  


2 Not his usual "Oh I shouldn't" when he knows it’s sensible to not have that next slice of cake or drink but will, but the soul-crushing denial of a thing he yearns for. It’s rare, given the way he usually chases his wants, and it metaphorically kills Crowley every time. ⤶

3 The irony of the angel knowing more about sensual pleasures than the demon is indeed acknowledged. ⤶

4 To his surprise and then wonder, there is no pain in the realization. ⤶

**Author's Note:**

> Since people kept asking, I made [a guide to inserting footnotes with a WYSYWIG editor](https://pearwaldorf.tumblr.com/post/187101781697/hello-friends-ive-gotten-a-number-of-comments-on). Please share and reblog if you found it useful.


End file.
